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Letter Of Credit

<h4 id="id02865" style="margin-top: 2em">SCHOOL.</h4> Rotha received the book with an access of pleasure, which expressed itself however mainly in sparkling eyes and the red tinge of excitement in her cheeks. She did say some words of thanks, but they were not fluent, as customary with her when any great degree of delight was pressing for utterance. Then speech was poor. Mrs. Mowbray did not miss it; she could read the signs, and was satisfied. But long after she was asleep, Rotha lay on her cot with eyes wide open, staring at the remains of the fire. What had come to her? what strange, enchantment-like, fabulous, change of circumstances? and this dispenser and contriver of happiness, slumbering peacefully on the bed yonder, what was she but a very fairy of blessing, bringing order out of disorder and comfort out of the very depths of confusion. A home, and a friend, and nice dresses, and study, and books! Two books to-day! Rotha was too happy to sleep. The next day she began school duties again; but Mrs. Mowbray would not have her join the family at meals, until, as she said, she had something comfortable to wear. Rotha was thankful for the kind thoughtfulness that spared her feelings; and in return bent herself to her appointed tasks with an energy which soon disposed of them. However, they took all her time, for Mrs. Mowbray had introduced her to another part of the school and a much more advanced class of the pupils. This of itself gave her new spirit. The following day Mrs. Mowbray, as she had promised, sent her with one of the under teachers to have her dresses cut out. They went in a carriage, and drove to Mrs. Marble's. Mrs. Marble wore a doubtful countenance. "Well, it is time you had something warmer, if you've got nothing more made since those lawns. Where's Mr. Digby?" "In England." "England! Don't say! And who's taking care of you?" "Miss Carpenter is in Mrs. Mowbray's family," said Miss Jewett stiffly. "Mrs. Mowbray, hey? what, the great school? You are in luck, Rotha. Did Mr. Digby put you there?" "He did not choose the school," said Rotha. "I went to the same place where my cousin went. Mrs. Marble, that's too tight." "It'll look a great deal handsomer, Rotha. Slim waists are what all the ladies want." "I can't be pinched," said Rotha, lifting and lowering her shoulders in the exultation of free play. "I would rather be comfortable." "It does look better, to be snug, Miss Carpenter," said Miss Jewett, taking the mantua-maker's part. "I don't care," said Rotha. "I must have room to breathe. Make it loose enough, Mrs. Marble, or it will just come back to you to be altered." "You're as masterful as you just was, and as I always thought you would be," said the mantua-maker. "I suppose you think times is changed." "They are very much changed, Mrs. Marble," said Rotha calmly. "But I always had my dresses loose." "And everything else about you!—" muttered the dress-maker. However, she was never an ill-natured woman, and took her orders with tolerable equanimity. "You are the first young lady I ever saw trying on dresses, who did not want them to fit nicely," Miss Jewett remarked as they were driving away. "But I could not breathe!" said Rotha. "I like to be comfortable." "Different people have different notions of comfort," was the comment, not admiring. But Rotha did not give the matter another thought. The next day was Sunday. "You will not go to church, dear," Mrs. Mowbray had whispered. "I shall not ask you till you have something to keep you warm. Have you a thick outer coat?" Rotha explained. Her aunt had been about to get her one two or three weeks ago; then they had had their falling out, and since then she had heard no more on the subject. "We will get things in order by next Sunday. You can study at home to- day, and maybe that will be the best thing for you." It was the most welcome order Rotha could have received. She went up to Mrs. Mowbray's room, which she still inhabited, and took Bible and New Testament and her newly acquired possession, which she found bore title, "The Treasury of Scripture Knowledge," and sat down on the couch. It was all so comfortable around her that Rotha paused to look and think and enjoy. Hid away, she felt; safe and secure from all disturbances; her aunt could not worry her, Antoinette could not even look at her; nobody could interfere with her; and the good fairy of her life would come in only to help and shelter her. The warm air; poor Rotha had been inhabiting a region of frost, it must be remembered, material as well as spiritual; the slight sweet perfume that pervaded the room and came, Rotha knew not from what; the pretty, cosy look of the place, furniture, fire, pictures and all;—Rotha sat looking and feeling in a maze of astonishment. That all this should be, geographically, so near Mrs. Busby's house! With a breath of admiring delight, at last Rotha turned to her books. Yes, if she could get that question settled— She opened her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge" and found the fifth chapter of Matthew; then the 24th verse. The first reference here was to Mat. xviii. 15-17. That does not tell me anything, thought Rotha. I cannot go to aunt Serena and tell her her fault; it would be no use; and besides, that is what I have done already, only not so, I suppose.—Then followed a passage from Job and one from Proverbs, which did not, she thought, meet her case. Then in Mark ix. 50 she found the command to "have peace one with another." But what if I cannot? thought Rotha. Next, in Romans, the word was "Recompense to no man evil for evil"; and, "If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." This at first caused some exultation, which evaporated upon further reflection. Had it not been possible? If she had been patient, forgiving, sweet; if she had spoken and looked accordingly; would there not have been peace? Her aunt at least would have had nothing against her. Her own cause of grievance would have remained; might she not have forgiven that? A resolute negative answered this gentle suggestion of conscience; like Jonah in the case of his gourd, Rotha said to herself she did well to be angry. At least that Mrs. Busby deserved it; for conscience would not allow the conclusion that she had done "well," at all. It was not as Mr. Digby would have done. He was Rotha's living commentary on the word. She went on. The next passage forbade going to law before unbelievers. Then came a word or two from the first epistle of Timothy; an injunction to "pray everywhere, lifting up holy hands, without wrath—" Rotha got no further. That arrow struck home. She must not pray with anger in her heart. Then she must forgive, unconditionally; for it would never do to intermit all praying until somebody else should come to a right, mind. Give up her anger! It made Rotha's blood boil to think of it. How could she, with her blood boiling? And till she did—she might not think to pray and be heard. O why is it so hard to be a Christian! why is it made so difficult! Then Rotha's conscience whispered that the difficulty was of her own making; if she were all right, that would be all easy. She would go on, she thought, with her comparison of Bible passages; perhaps she would come to something that would help. The next passage referred to was in James. "But if ye have bitter envying and strife in your hearts, glory not… This wisdom descendeth not from above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish. For where envying and strife are, there is confusion and every evil work." "Devilish"! well, I suppose it is, Rotha confessed to herself. "Envying" —I am not envying; but "strife"—aunt Serena and I have that between us. And so "there is confusion and every evil work." I suppose there is. But how am I to help it? I cannot stop my anger.—She went on to the next reference. It was, "Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed." The Bible was all against her. Tears began to well up into Rotha's eyes. She thought she would see what the words were about forgiving. Her eye had caught the Lord's prayer on the next leaf. She turned to that place in her reference book. And here, first of all, the words of the prayer itself struck her, and then the 14th and 15th verses below. It was a dead lock! If she could not forgive, she could not be forgiven; sharp and clear the sentence ran; there was no mistaking it, there could be no glossing it over. Rotha's tears silently rose and fell, hot and sorrowful. She did want to be forgiven; but to forgive, no. With tears dripping before her Bible, she would not let them fall on it, she studied a passage referred to, in the 18th of Matthew, where Peter was directed to set no bounds to his overlooking of injuries, and the parable of the unmerciful servant is brought up. Rotha studied that chapter long. The right and the truth she saw clearly; but as soon as she thought of applying them to her aunt Busby, her soul rose up in arms. She has done me the cruelest and the meanest of wrongs, said the girl to herself; cruel beyond all telling; what she deserves is to be well shaken by the shoulders. Go to her and say that I have done wrong to her and ask her to forgive me, and so help her to forget her own doings—I cannot.- -Rotha made a common mistake, the sophistry of passion, which is the same thing as the devil's sophistry. Her confessing and doing right, would have been the very likeliest way to make Mrs. Busby ashamed of herself. However, Rotha went on with her study. Two passages struck her particularly, in Ephesians and Colossians. The first—"Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you." The other to the same purport, in Col. iii. 13. But he has not forgiven me, cried Rotha in her heart, while the tears poured; he will not forgive me, unless I forgive her.—"But he is ready to forgive you," the very words before her proclaimed. It was a dead lock, nevertheless; and when Mrs. Mowbray came home from church she found, to her surprise, Rotha still bending over her Bible with her tears dripping on the floor. Mrs. Mowbray took off her hat and cloak before she said a word. Then coming to Rotha's side on the couch, she put one arm round her. "My dear," she said gently, "what is the matter?" The tone and the touch were so sympathizing, so tender, that Rotha answered by an affectionate, clinging gesture, taking care at the same time that none of her tears fell on Mrs. Mowbray's rich silk. For a little space she made no other answer. When she spoke, it was with a passionate accent. "Madame, if I am ever to be a Christian, I must be made all over new!" "That is nothing uncommon," the lady replied. "It is every one's case. So the Bible says; 'If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.'" "But how am I to get made over all new?" Rotha cried. "That is the Holy Spirit's work. 'Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.'" "Then must I ask for him?" "Certainly." "But if I do not forgive aunt Serena, it is no use for me to pray?" "Nay, Rotha, if that were true we should be in a bad case indeed. If you read the fifteenth chapter of Luke, you will find that when the prodigal son was returning, his father saw him while he was yet a great way off; and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him. If you are truly setting yourself to seek God, you will find him; and if you are in earnest in wishing to do his will, he will enable you to do it. You must always ask, my dear. The Bible says, 'the Lord over all is rich unto all—' not, that are perfect, but—'that call upon him.'" "But it says, 'if ye do not forgive, neither will your heavenly Father forgive you.'" "True; but he will give you that new nature you say you must have; and then forgiving will be easy." Rotha looked up, partly comforted. And from that time she prayed for a new nature. A few days more saw her school dress finished and at home. It looked magnificent to Rotha; far too good for a school dress. But Mrs. Mowbray said no; she must look nice in school as well as anywhere; and that very evening she brought to Rotha a box full of neat collars and cuffs and ruffles; some of plain linen and some of lighter and prettier manufacture. The supply was most abundant; and with these things were some ribbands of various colours and little silk neck ties. Rotha received them in the same mute way of speechless gratitude and delight; and resolved one thing; that Mrs. Mowbray should have nothing to complain of in her, whether regarding school duties or anything else. Another thing Mrs. Mowbray did for Rotha that week. Calling Antoinette Busby to her, at the close of a lesson, she said, "My dear, among the things sent round from your house for your cousin's use, there is no coat or cloak for cold weather wear. Will you tell your mother, Rotha's coat has not been brought with the rest of her things? Thank you. That is all, my dear." Antoinette went home in a good deal of a fluster, and told her mother. Mrs. Busby looked impenetrable. "Now mamma, what are you going to do about it?" "What did you say?" "I said nothing. What could I say?" "Did you see Rotha?" "No; she is up stairs, getting nursed for her cold." "Stuff!" "Well, she had a cold, mamma. Mrs. Mowbray always finds out if the girls are shamming. She is sharp enough." "Rotha is no more ill than I am." "Mrs. Mowbray always sends a girl off to her room if she is out of sorts, and coddles her up with pills and tea. She don't do it unless she sees reason." "Why didn't you ask to see Rotha? It would have looked better." "I never thought of it," said Antoinette laughing. "Because, really, I didn't want to see her. I should rather think I didn't!" "You had better ask to-morrow." "Very well. And what shall I say about the coat?" "I suppose I shall have to get her one," Mrs. Busby said grimly. "Then she will want a hat, mamma." "I'll send your grey plush." "She won't wear it." "Mrs. Mowbray will make her. She won't hear nonsense." "Who does, mamma? Not you, I am sure." Having to do the thing, Mrs. Busby did it well, for her own sake. She would have let Rotha stay within doors all winter; but if she must get her a cloak, it should never be said she got her a poor one. Accordingly, the next day two boxes were sent round to Mrs. Mowbray's; one containing the rejected hat, the other a warm and handsome cloak, which Mrs. Busby got cheap because it was one of the last year's goods, of a fashion a little obsolete. Antoinette asked leave to see Rotha, that same day, and was refused. Mrs. Mowbray wished her to be left quite to herself. So the next time the cousins met was in class, a day or two later. It was a class to which Mrs. Mowbray herself gave a lesson; it was a class of the more advanced scholars; and Antoinette, who had left her cousin in a lower department, among Miss Blodgett's pupils, was exceedingly astonished to see Rotha come in among the young ladies of the family and take her seat in the privileged library where these lessons were given. Yet more was Antoinette astonished at her cousin's transformation. Rotha was dressed well, in the abovementioned chocolate plaid; her linen collar and cuffs were white and pretty like other people's; the dress was well made; Rotha's abundant dark hair, now growing long, was knotted up loosely at the back of her head, her collar was tied with a little cherry coloured bow; and her whole figure was striking and charming. Antoinette, who was an acknowledged beauty, felt a pang of displeasure. In fact she was so much disturbed and annoyed that her mind was quite distracted from the business in hand; she paid little attention to the lesson and rather got into disgrace. Rotha on the contrary, entering the class and enjoying the teaching for the first time, was full of delighted interest; forgot even her new dress and herself altogether; took acute, intelligent part in the discussion that went on, (the 'subject being historical) and at one bound unconsciously placed herself at the head of the class. There was no formal taking rank, but the judgment of all present involuntarily gave her the place. And Mrs. Mowbray herself had some difficulty not to look too often towards the face that always met hers with such sympathy and life in every feature. Many there indeed were interested; yet no eyes shewed such intelligent fire, no lips were so expressive in their play, no interest was so evidently unalloyed with any thought of self- consciousness. As the girls scattered, after the hour was over, the cousins met. "Well!" said Antoinette, "what's come over you?" The tone was not pleasant. Rotha asked her distantly what she meant? "Why I left you one thing, and I find you another," said Antoinette. "How did you get here?" "Mrs. Mowbray desired it. I came to school to study, Antoinette. Why should I not be here?" "But how could you be here? These are the upper girls." Rotha laughed a little. She felt very gay-hearted. "And where did you get this?" Antoinette went on, feeling of a fold of Rotha's dress. "What beautiful cashmere! Where did you get it?" "There came a good fairy to my room one night, and astonished me." "A fairy!" said Antoinette. "Yes, the days of fairies are not over. I thought they were, but I was mistaken," said Rotha joyously. "I do not think there is anything much pleasanter, than to have a good fairy come and visit you." "What do you mean?" "Just that. Good bye—the girls are going out to walk, and I must get ready to go along." She tripped up the stairs, leaving Antoinette mystified and crestfallen. Under pretence of collecting her books, she lingered in one of the class rooms in the lower story, waiting to see the girls pass out, which they always did, she knew, by the lower door. They came presently in long file. The families that sent their daughters to Mrs. Mowbray's were generally of the wealthier portions of society; and it was a well dressed set that defiled before Antoinette's eyes; too well, for many of them were unbecomingly fine. Antoinette did not recognize her cousin until she was quite out upon the street and turned her face casually to speak to some one behind her. The new cloak, of dark green stun 7, was as handsome as Antoinette's own; and there was no old grey plush hat above it. No such matter; a neat little green hat, perfectly simple, but new and well made and well fitting, shaded a face full of merry sparkle, totally unlike the depressed, cloudy expression Antoinette had been used to despise at home. She told her mother with an injured air what she had seen. Mrs. Busby said nothing. It was vexatious; at the same time she reflected that the credit of all this would redound to herself Nobody but Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha herself knew whence came the dresses and bonnet, and they would not tell, naturally. On the whole the gain was as great as the loss. But to Rotha now-a-days it was all gain. That walk with the girls; how pleasant it was, to go with free step, conscious that there was nothing in her appearance to draw remark or provoke pity. At Rotha's age, perhaps as much as ever, such an immunity is prized and enjoyed. It was such a walk as till then she had never taken in the streets of New York; for even when, two or three years ago, she had gone with her mother, it was with a feeling of being classed with the multitude of the poor and struggling and ill-dressed. So the walking had been mainly in streets where such classes were lodged and at home. Now Rotha went where the buildings were fine and the ways broad, and where the passers-by were gay and splendid. Her breath came freer, her step grew more elastic, the colour rose in her cheeks; and when the little procession returned home, Miss Parsons, who had been in charge of it, remarked to Mrs. Mowbray that she had no idea before what a very handsome girl Miss Carpenter was. And Mrs. Mowbray, when they all gathered to dinner, cast a keen glance at the new member of the company. She was reassured; not a particle of self- consciousness was to be traced in the fine, bright, spirited lace, though the beauty was unquestioned. That was the first time Rotha had met the family at table. It was a new and highly interesting experience for her. The table was very long; and the mere sight of so many fresh young faces together was inspiriting of itself; of greatest interest to Rotha because these were her companions, fellow pupils, sharers in work and play together. But apart from its living surroundings, the board excited Rotha's keenest attention. The delicacy and order of its arrangements, the beauty of its appointments, the abundance of the supply, the excellence of the material. Everything there was of the best; everything was well cooked and appetizing; it was a simple table, as it should be, but no provision for health or comfort was wanting. Rotha felt herself at home in surroundings that suited her. Then it was a lively meal; not a bit of stagnation. At Mrs. Busby's the talk at table was about nothing to stir the slightest interest, to any one whose soul was not in a condition to be fed with the very dryest of social husks; the only exceptions being when Mr. and Mrs. Busby got into a debate. A debate always has some elements of interest, if there is any wit on either side of it. Here, the first thing, after the carving was well begun, was the reciting of French anecdotes or sayings or quotations, by each of the scholars in turn; the exercise being superintended by the French teacher, a very imposing person in Rotha's eyes, to whom she had just that day been introduced. It was very amusing to her to hear the differing accent, the varying voices, and to watch the different air and manner of the girls, as Mme. Bonton's voice, uttering "Suivante"—"Suivante"—called them up one after another. She herself, of course, had no little speech prepared. Then the conversation became general, as the business of dining went on its way, and Mrs. Mowbray made part of it very interesting. Altogether, it was a time of delight to Rotha. Not less so were the hours of study that followed. It was one of her good properties, that she could easily concentrate all her attention on the one thing she happened to have in hand. So study was study to her; deep, absorbing, conquering, and of course triumphing. And when the bell summoned the family to tea, she came fresh for new pleasure to assemble with the rest. The parlours were cleared of the long table now; only enough of it being left to accommodate the younger scholars who might not be trusted to hold a cup of tea safely. The girls brought their various pieces of fancy work; the rooms were well lighted, well furnished, the walls hung with engravings and paintings, the mantelpieces full of pretty things; it was not like a school, but like a large, elegant family gathering. Here the tea was handed round, with rolls and excellent cake and biscuits. Mrs. Mowbray presently called Rotha to her side, by the big table; and held a little quiet talk with her about the course of the day, introducing her at the same time to several of her schoolmates. I can never tell how the girl's whole nature opened and expanded, like a suddenly blossoming rose, under the genial, kindly atmosphere and culture into which she now came. Study? She studied with a consuming kind of intensity. Not a teacher that she had to do with, but took delight in her. She gave them absolutely no trouble. She was not a timid girl; so was not, like some, hindered by nervousness from making a fair presentation of herself. Her mind was opening, greedy for the food it got, and taking it in rapidly. And happy? There was not seemingly a happier girl in the house. Crowding new interests had driven into the background, for the time, the demands of conscience; and Rotha was one of those people whose cup of life is a large one; capacities of heart and intellect alike wide in their possibilities, but if satisfied, making existence very rich. She was quiet enough in manner, never forgetting her beloved model; yet eye and lip and varying colour, and the involuntary movement of head and hand, and foot too, testified to the glad growing life of her soul. Mrs. Mowbray saw it with perpetual satisfaction; it got to be a habit with her that her eye sought and rested on that one unmistakeably honest and loyal member of her family. And Rotha's eye never met hers but there came a sparkle and a look of love into the young face. All day was a delight now to the girl; beginning with the morning prayers, which to be sure she loved mostly because she heard Mrs. Mowbray's voice in them. Then came breakfast; bright and cheery, with the hope and the work of the day in prospect, and a lively, pretty, pleasant table and company in possession. It was not like school; it was a large family; where all arrangements and supplies were as in the best appointed private house, and the only rules that reigned were the rules of good manners. Then came the brisk walk in the bracing morning air; and then, study. Some lesson hours were particularly interesting to Rotha. Latin she did not like, but French she took to kindly; and Madame Bonton told madame with a satisfied nod of her head, that Miss Carpenter was "not a soap bubble",—high praise, which only a few of the girls ever attained. Among her schoolmates Rotha made no particular friends. Some of them asked captiously who she was? others remarked critically that she thought herself too good looking; others declared enviously that she was a "favourite." Rotha did not take to any of them; made no confident of any of them; and was felt by most of them to be somehow uncongenial. Those who saw most of her felt this most decidedly. She presently was out of favour with all her roommates. It was a rule of the house that lights should be all out at ten o'clock. Then one of the under teachers made a progress through the rooms to see that this was done and everybody in bed. Rotha made one of four girls who occupied a large room on the third floor. Each young lady had her own bed, her own press and drawers, and everything comfort called for; of course absolute privacy could not be given. When Rotha had been in her new quarters two or three weeks, there came a collision between her and her fellows in that room. One night Miss Jewett had been round as usual and turned off the gas. As soon as her retreating foot-steps were heard to reenter her own room, at the further end of the passage, one of the girls sprang up and lit the gas again. The burner was near the head of her bed, so that she could see pretty well to read when she was lying down; which to Rotha's great surprise she went on to do for some time— till Rotha fell asleep. The next night the same thing happened, and the next. Rotha became uneasy, and finally could bear it no longer. The fourth time this trick was played, she lifted her voice in protest. "Miss Entable," said she, "what you are doing is against the rules." She spoke clearly enough, though with a moderated voice; but not the least attention was paid to her remonstrance. One of her three companions was asleep; the second giggled; the reader took no notice. Rotha grew hot. What was she to do? Not give way. To give way in the face of opposition was never Rotha's manner. She slipped out of bed and came near the one where the reader lay. "Miss Entable, it is against rules, what you are doing." "Mind your own business," said the other shortly. "I am minding it," returned Rotha. "It is my business to keep Mrs. Mowbray's rules, and not to help break them; and I will not." "Will not what? You want to curry favour with old Mowbray—that's what you do. I have no patience with such meanness!" "You had better go and tell her what we are doing," said the third girl scornfully. "Miss Mc Pherson," said Rotha, her voice trembling a little with wrath, "I think Mrs. Mowbray trusts you. How can you bear to be false to trust?" "Stuff!" "Cant!" "Nobody asks your opinion about it. Who are you?" said the Mc Pherson, who in her own opinion was somebody. "Nor do I ask yours," said Rotha. "I will not help you break madame's rules. The light is one fourth part mine; and my part shall not burn after hours." With which deliverance she turned off the gas. Words of smothered rage and scorn followed her as she went back to bed; and the next day Rotha was plainly ostracised by a large part of her school-mates. The next evening the gas was lighted again after ten o'clock. "Now you Carpenter," said the reader, "I am not going to stand any of your ill manners. You will let the gas alone, if you please." "I cannot let it alone," said Rotha. "I should be a sharer in your dishonour." "Dishonour! well, let it alone, or I'll—" "What, Miss Entable?" "Mc Pherson and I will put you in bed and tie you there; and Jennings will help. We are three against one. So hold your tongue." Rotha reflected. It did not suit her feeling of self-respect to be concerned in a row. She raised herself on one elbow. "I do not choose to fight," she said; "that is not my way. But if you do not put the gas out, I shall tell Mrs. Mowbray that she must make somebody watch to see that her orders are observed." Now there arose a storm; rage and contempt and reviling were heaped on Rotha's head. "Informer!"—"Spy!"—"Mean tell tale!"—were some of the gentle marks of esteem bestowed on her. "I am not an informer," said Rotha, when she could be heard; "I am not going to mention any names. I will only tell Mrs. Mowbray that she must charge somebody to see that her orders are observed." "Orders! She is a mean, pinching, narrow-minded, low, school ma'am. You should see how it is at Mrs. De Joyce's. The girls have liberty—they receive their friends—they go to the opera—they have little dances— they do just what they like. Mrs. De Joyce is such a lady! it is another thing. I am not going to stay in this mean house after this term is out." "Mary Entable!" said Rotha, rising up on her elbow and speaking with blazing eyes; "are you not ashamed of yourself? Mrs. Mowbray, who has just been so kind to you! so generous! so good! How long is it since she was nursing you through a terrible sickness—nursing you night and day— entertaining your mother and your sister for ten days, in her crowded house. Do you dare call her narrow? Answer me one thing, if you can; did your mother and sister bear the expense of their stay here, or did she? Answer me, if you have a fraction of a soul in you!—Aren't you ashamed! I should think you would cover up your face in the bedclothes, and never look at anybody again!" Leaning on her elbow, raised so up in her bed, Rotha had delivered herself of the foregoing; in a moderated voice it is true, but with a cutting energy and directness. The other three girls were at first silent, partly with astonishment, Rotha's usual manner was so contained. "You may do as you like," she went on more composedly, "but help you I will not in your wrong ways. If the gas is lighted again after ten o'clock, I shall take my measures. I come of an honest family." That last cut was too much. The storm of abuse burst forth again; but Rotha wrapped herself in her coverlets and said no more. The gas was not relighted that evening. However, in the nature of the case it followed that lawless girls would not be long kept in check by the influence of one whom they regarded so lightly as these did Rotha. A fortnight later, the latter came to Mrs. Mowbray one day when she was alone in the library. "Well, my child—what is it?" said the kind voice she had learned to love devotedly. Mrs. Mowbray was arranging some of the displaced books in the bookcases, and spoke with only a fleeting glance at the person approaching her, to see who it was. "May I speak to you, madame?" "Yes—speak. What is it?" "I do not know how to say what I want to say." "Straight out, my child. Straight out is best. What is the matter?" "Nothing, with me, madame. But—if it would not give too much trouble—I thought I would like it very much if I could be put in another room." "Sleeping room?" "Yes, ma'am." "Why?"—Mrs. Mowbray's quick hands were busy all the while she was talking; putting up and pulling down. Rotha hesitated. "Madame, before I answer I should like to ask another question. What ought I to do if I see something done which you have forbidden?" A quick sharp glance came her way now. "What have you seen?" "That is just what I do not know whether I ought to tell you. I thought, perhaps it would be the best way for me to go where I could not see it." "Why?" said Mrs. Mowbray dryly. "Then I should not be sharing the wrong. I suppose, more than that is not my affair. I am afraid it would be troublesome to move me." "Any change is troublesome in a house like this," the lady answered; and Rotha stood still, not knowing how to go on. Mrs. Mowbray stepped up on the library steps to arrange some books on the upper shelves; and till she came down she did not speak again. "You are quite right to mention no names and give no stories," she said then. "I always doubt an informer. And you are quite right also in refusing to countenance what is wrong. I will give you another room, my dear." She took Rotha in her arms and kissed her repeatedly. "Have I found a friend?" she said. "You, madame?" said Rotha. "I cannot do anything for you; but you have done everything for me." "You can give me love and truth that is all we any of us can give to one another, isn't it? The ways of shewing may be different.—Where are you going to spend the holidays?" she said with a change of tone. "I don't know, madame. I have not thought about it." "Will you spend them with me?" Joy flamed up in Rotha's eyes and lips and cheeks. "O madame!—if I may." "I expect half a dozen of the young ladies will stay with me. Here is a note that came for you, from your aunt." She gave Rotha an open note to read. It contained the request that Rotha might spend the time between Christmas and New Year's Day at her house, but not those days. Rotha read and looked up. "Write," said Mrs. Mowbray, "and say to your aunt that I have invited you and that you have accepted the invitation, for the whole holidays." The smile and the glance of her sweet eye were bewitching. Rotha felt as if she could have stooped down and kissed her very garments. <h4 id="id03014" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XVII.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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